


The Purpose of You

by consultingstoryteller



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Platonic Relationships, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Threats of Violence, but i'm going to fix it, it looks bad, promise!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:10:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5807515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingstoryteller/pseuds/consultingstoryteller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three weeks, six days and seven hours. </p><p>He hadn’t come here for comforts of home. He had come here because he didn’t know what else to do. He needed a release. He needed to find his way out of this numbness, this sorrow, this grief. And the only person who could drag him to the surface was standing on the other side of the room, regarding him with a sharp gaze that took everything in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Purpose of You

John didn’t know how he ended up here. His breathing was coming out in harsh puffs and hisses as he was trying to gather his surroundings. The street outside 221 Baker Street was dimming quickly as the grey February day finally turned into night. The sun hadn’t made a show of itself today before settling down until the next grey and gloomy day. He could see the fine rain swaying in the light of a lonely street lamp. The mist clawed up his collar and sat damp wherever his skin was left exposed. It was so cold out here.

John felt like he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks.

Last month or so he had been surrounded by a thick fog, lost in it, his anger and sorrow and confusion swirling around him. Nothing was able to penetrate it, it seemed. He was mourning a life that had been presented to him as a chance, maybe the last chance, to be someone else, someone better, to make it finally work. And then it had been taken from him, one last time. It would not come back.

His daughter was gone. She had been there, for a fleeting moment. He had held her in his arms and just looked at her tiny wrinkled face, and she had slept there, a warm, living, breathing God’s creation trusted in his care. And he had smiled, and Mary had smiled, still exhausted from the difficult childbirth, and Sherlock had been…

It didn’t matter anymore. His daughter was dead, she hadn’t been strong enough, they hadn’t been able to keep her in this world. One moment she had been warm and alive and he had held her, and in just a few hours she had been cool and unmoving in her mother’s breast. It wasn’t supposed to happen, things like that were not supposed to happen, not for them, not for him. He and Mary both had fought so much to get rid of their past and become someone else, someone better. Slowly they had reached up and become the people they were together; a husband and wife, and for the shortest of time, father and mother to a beautiful baby girl. But it had happened, and while John succumbed into the fog it became clear that Mary couldn’t keep up the appearances anymore. She had failed, her body had refused to bear her the salvation they both sorely needed, and she hadn’t had it in her to pretend anymore. So three days after the funeral she was gone too.

 

_“Mary Morstan never existed, I made her to suit my purposes. She was my creation as much as our daughter was ours. We didn’t even have the time to christen her. She doesn’t have a name, John, she’s dead to this world as she never was here at all. And so am I. Mary Watson was someone I really wanted to be, with you. Please believe me. Don’t try to find me, you won’t be able to._

_I will love you, always.”_

 

The letter on the dining table was all she left him. The only explanation.

It had been a few weeks now. The fog was still there, but instead of the grief that had dragged him to the rock bottom another feeling had suddenly wormed its way in his head. Anger. He let it, because everything was better than this endless sorrow that dulled his senses and sheltered his mind from everything else that was out there. Even Sherlock hadn’t been able to…

Sherlock. He had been there, they had been standing in the living room of their… Sherlock’s flat, and he had said something, both of them had said something and it had all gone to hell, but what had he…

He couldn’t remember. He was too angry to remember. He stood in the gateway, puffing, clenching his fists, spine rigid as made of steel. He switched his weight on his good leg, preparing himself to leave when suddenly behind him he heard a chuffing sound, then a heavy thump, and a gasp.

John turned around.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

 

Three weeks, six days and seven hours.

Sherlock had known that John would come to him, but only when he was ready. So he had waited, anxious to call, to run through London to knock on a door of a suburban house and check on his friend. But he hadn’t done it. For once in his life Sherlock had decided that it wouldn’t do to be inpatient.

So he had waited.

And waited.

It took almost a month before he heard the key in the lock, the rattle of the door handle and the familiar footsteps in the staircase, now heavy with loss. Sherlock shivered. Outside the day was turning into night, the early evening sun slowly sinking towards the horizon behind the thick cover of clouds. He was glad he had lit the fire earlier. It did nothing too chase away the chill that had settled in his bones all those months ago, but maybe it could bring some comfort to his suffering friend.

He stood up from where the sofa where he had been sprawled when he heard the heavy feet come through the door and the key drop on the carpeted floor. He turned around and swallowed back the light words he had prepared for a greeting.

It had been three weeks and six days, and John looked like a mess. There wasn’t a more eloquent expression to describe what he saw. John had the typical pallid skin, dark circles and days old stubble of a man who had lost all hope, but this was not what Sherlock was worried about. What pained him was that he couldn’t read John anymore. This shell of a man surely looked like John, but there was nothing of John in it. There was nothing left of his strong gait, his gentle smile or the stable energy that always radiated from his compact form. And his eyes… They were dull and clouded and didn’t focus on anything particular. Sherlock couldn’t see his friend in them.

 _“I should’ve gone to him”_ , he realised. _“I should’ve stopped this. I should have gone to him before he got lost in himself.”_ His eyes roamed up and down, looking for the smallest hint that under that cracked shell John was still there. He didn’t find any. John stood still and stared back at him, eyes still not quite focused to what was in front of him.

Sherlock had forgotten every word he had planned to say. He had done his research, he knew himself and he didn’t want to cause John any more pain so he had planned it all carefully. Words that were light and flippant enough to lift John up from his sadness, maybe even make him laugh, and other words more grave and serious, but sympathetic enough to make sure that he knew that Sherlock would be there for him, that he was trying to understand. And he was, he could feel some of it, could pinpoint the loss of two lives in his thoughts, where the smile of a friend and wife and a breath of a newborn baby girl sat heavily. Some of that weight was for John, but he knew he was mourning for something important lost for himself too.

But these words were out of his grasp now and he couldn’t find them anymore. As the silence grew heavier between them and a strange look clouded John’s already tense features he could only think of one thing to say.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

The fire had been lit when he entered the room. John found it curious, as much as he could find anything curious these days. But he knew that Sherlock didn’t normally bother. But this detail didn’t hold his interest for long. He hadn’t come here for comforts of home. He had come here because he didn’t know what else to do. He needed a release. He needed to find his way out of this numbness, this sorrow, this grief. And the only person who could drag him to the surface was standing on the other side of the room, regarding him with a sharp gaze that took everything in. It didn’t bother John anymore, being deduced, scrutinised into tiny little pieces of clues and facts.

This is why he had come. He needed Sherlock to be the one fixed point in his life. The cold mannered sleuth, the machine. He needed Sherlock to pick him up and sort him out and tell him who he was. He didn’t remember anymore.

But Sherlock was ever unpredictable. He didn’t seem to have any hurry to launch into his usual string of deductions. John stood there, waiting, his non existing patience was wearing thinner by the second.

 _“You know what I need you to do, Sherlock. Please.”_ The sudden thought was so loud and abrupt that it almost escaped his lips into the room proper. But he caught it on the tip of his tongue, pursing his traitorous mouth into a thin line. His hand was shaking so violently he couldn’t hide it behind his clutched fist. Sherlock glanced at his hand before dropping his eyes to the floor, head bent in a hesitant angle slightly away from his friend. He took a breath, as if preparing for a battle, and spoke.

“Come home, John.”

John wasn’t sure he had heard right. He mustn’t have. It was so difficult to understand anything these days. “I’m sorry?”

“Come home, John.” Sherlock’s voice was nothing like John had heard before. Quiet rumble, just above a whisper, but still it seemed to echo over the room. His eyes stayed on the floor, and he said nothing else.

That was all it needed. It was not what John had wanted, it was not what he had come to see him for, but it worked.

Because now John was angry. No, he was furious. He took a step forward.

“No, Sherlock, you don’t get to do this. Not this time, not now”, he gritted through his bared teeth. “I won’t be manipulated by you. Not this time.”

Sherlock whipped his head up and locked his eyes to his. His jaw dropped and shut just to fall again, as to form words he didn’t have. John took satisfaction from where he could these days, and rendering Sherlock Holmes speechless was something he could always enjoy. He took another step closer.

“Every time. Every fucking time. Did you know this would happen? Did you just wait for the opportunity to use me like this again?”

“No!” This time Sherlock’s answer came fast, too fast. He too shuffled a careful step towards the middle of the room. “I have never… I could never do that.”

John was grinning now. If he couldn’t get the answers he needed he could at least stab the knife into his multiple wounds once again and twist until he finally felt the pain. If nothing else, he could always pick a fight. Sherlock must have known that this is something he could offer. He had been the one causing most of the wounds anyway, so it was only appropriate that he was the one helping him make them bleed again. It was fucked up, and entirely wrong, and it was only a crutch for him, but for the love of everything good and bad he would take it. If it took a shouting match with this man, a fist fight, a broken nose, hurtful words and a strike too far, he would take it.

Had he not been so far gone in his fury he could’ve seen that the glint in his friend’s eyes was not excitement, nor was his mouth set in its usual smugness. But John didn’t see.

“No?” he asked, still smiling. “You’re a liar, Sherlock. I have seen you doing it. I have seen you taking a person, just another insignificant life on this earth, and using them. Your purposes over anyone else’s. No? Can you look me in the eye and say that you have never used me like you used them to get what you want?” Sherlock eyes darted around the room, looking for something, anything, before they caught the chair next to the fireplace.

“Cases!” He exclaimed before John could continue. “Cases, John, customers, I use them, and people around them, to get the information I need, to solve it, I need to know everything, every piece of information, I need it to solve it, if I don’t have it, I, I…” He hesitated there before moving on. “I can’t help it, John, sometimes I need to lie, I know I can use it, I know, I admit that I’m good at it, but I would never… you, I have only used it for you when I’ve desperately needed, when you’ve been too invested, you’ve become part of the game…”

“THE GAME!” John roared. “That’s what it is to you, all of it! That’s what I am to you, just another piece in the puzzle, pawn in the game of chess. And so was Mary. Another pair of insignificant lives to use and abuse in your game of…” Sherlock looked like he was going to step in and say something, but John wasn’t done yet.

“I bet you wanted this, Sherlock. Her, out of the way, me broken on the ground, so you can be the dashing hero and just sweep me back up and into your little games again. I bet you’re enjoying this, right now, because look! I am here, of assistance again, and you can use me as you please.” John threw his arms up to his sides and cocked his head up, exposing his neck. “All yours again!”

“Never! Never!”, Sherlock interrupted him sharply. “Never, John, not you. You don’t understand, why don’t you understand?” He inhaled shakily, beginning to sound frantic now.

Suddenly John found himself chest to chest with the detective. His fists were clenched so tight his nails dug into the tender skin of his palms. He craned his head back to look the taller man in the eye and growled.

“I never do, right? Tell me again that I don’t understand, I dare you Sherlock, and you won’t be having that problem in your life, never anymore.”

“John, you don’t make any sense. Stop it, just stop this!” And if Sherlock Holmes were capable of pleading, this would probably be it.

But he had never been that man, not for John at least. John was too deep in his fuming mind to notice the hint of fear reflecting from Sherlock’s eyes.

He had been wrong, he didn’t need this, he didn’t need any of this anymore. Sherlock was not capable of helping him anymore, if he ever had been. And he had been right, as always. John didn’t have it in him to understand. He couldn’t. His mouth quirked up on the other side in a cruel ghost of so many real smiles this room had seen. Thinking only of the relief of being as for from this room, this building, the whole city, as he possible could he prepared for the final blow, the closing of the curtain and the inevitable end that came with it.

“You could not, after all.” John knew the detective would be clever enough to understand. “Goodbye, Sherlock.” This time John did see the hurt in the other man’s eyes.

 _“Good. Let the bastard be the one that feels it this time”_ , was the only clear thought he could summon.

And with this John turned around and stormed round the stairs and out of the door. He didn’t take the key with him.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me today when I wrote a piece of meta in tumblr (astudyinconsultants). And it didn't leave me alone before I began writing it down. And as stories tend to do, this one grew too. So don't be afraid, it will not be left here, the second part is on its way! Meanwhile I would love to hear your comments as of what do you think of the beginning. This is my first (published) Sherlock fic after all. :)


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